


weeknights at jets

by nbfcknsht, parrotfish_elliot



Category: I Was Born for This - Alice Oseman
Genre: Gas Station AU, Jimmy works at a Jets, Lister is a chain smoker, M/M, Non canon compliant, Two narratives, and seemingly enjoys the rain???, slight slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-07-28 17:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16245992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbfcknsht/pseuds/nbfcknsht, https://archiveofourown.org/users/parrotfish_elliot/pseuds/parrotfish_elliot
Summary: jimmy kaga-ricci works the evening shift at his local jet petrol station. lister bird's a troublemaking, chainsmoker who just can't seem to stay away





	1. jimmy

The bells above the door chimed when I walked in. It was four in the afternoon on a particularly exhausting Monday and instead of curled up in bed doing homework like every other teen, I was at Jet. Some people have to work for a living, you know, and I had been working there since I was sixteen. The hat on my head was older than the hair underneath it, most likely.

Music was resonating through the mini store, something from one of our playlists. Maybe the seventies one. I don’t know, I don’t care. I make the playlists, but I don’t pick them. That’s Rowan’s job.

Speaking of Rowan, he looks ready to collapse behind the counter. He’s manager, so he’s less fine with counter work. Jesus, the prat. He’s been working here for the same amount of time as me and he’s been my best friend since primary school, yet he gets to boss me around and act like some sort of father. Ridiculous, honestly. What about him gives off trustworthy vibes? Perhaps it’s the fact that his girlfriend knows the owner?  
He gave me a two finger salute in to acknowledge my entry before leaving to go do manager-y things in the back room. Honestly, who left him in charge? It’s transparent that his definition of “manager-y things” consists of texting his girlfriend and occasionally jotting down a restock note. That’s not to say I don’t love and respect him, don’t get me wrong. It’s just a bit annoying that the boy who single-handedly started a mini bonfire in my yard gets to call himself my superior, you know?

After he closed the door, I began my delightful afternoon routine of staring at the door, hoping uselessly that a burglar or gunman or _ninja_ doesn't waltz through and try to take our money. I don't think I'd be much help in that kind of scenario, anyways, I’d probably just freeze up or hand over our cash machine. I have to remind myself that this is Kent, not Central London. There's rarely anything to be afraid of, really, unless you count the weird group of thirteen-year-olds that sometimes pop in, buy one single bag of crisps, and pop out again. Those kids may be ghouls of some sort, I wouldn’t be shocked. You can’t ever trust thirteen-year-olds.

Despite the clear lack of actual threats, I found myself jumping a bit every time the bells chimed above the door. But every time, it was just someone harmless and familiar.

Mrs. Millegan and her daughter stopping by to buy a soda. The Leroys from down the way, grabbing a first aid kit and some hydrogen peroxide. My own Grandad going out of his way to come up with an excuse to give me a large tip. How else am I going to pay rent, he says. Simple, I always respond, I’ll just never move out.

That won’t work, of course. I need to move out at some point. I mean, I’m eighteen. I can’t live with him forever. I can’t. Even if I could, I think I remind him too much of Grandma. No, I can’t think of that right now. Not at work. Not in public at all, preferably.  
The bell goes off again and interrupts my thoughts. More customers. Always more customers. I put on my best “I Totally Get Enough Sleep At Night” smile and breathe. In and out. In and out. Try not to focus on the bearded white man buying a pocket knife or the girl throwing a tantrum because her mum wouldn’t buy her a stuffed animal.

The playlist is repetitive. Not my best work. The peppy seventies beats offer a backdrop to the patient unraveling of my mind. By the time my shift is over, perhaps I’ll have gone insane to a point where I can sleep. That’d be nice. I can picture Bowie’s songs being the cause of my ultimate defeat- it’d be the best way for me to go, actually.

I focus on the rain outside instead.The gentle constant of the rain pattering on the roof keeps me grounded. Rain is nice, I think, when you’re inside. It’s a simple beat, a one-two-three-one-two. It’s dangerous, though. Rain can lead to thunder, can lead to floods, can lead to power outages, and I may find droplets of water calming but I do _not_ find those things calming at all. I do my best to brush those worries aside and just focus.

I just focus on the rain. After a bit, I have to focus on the customers. Time passes quickly, as it does when you’ve been doing the same thing most days for two years. It’s the same pattern every day, anyways. A middle-aged woman dead set on bigotry here, a mid-twenties couple with no concept of avoiding PDA there, and every so often, someone wanting to buy alcohol and asking me if I’m legally allowed to scan their drinks, as if I’d be allowed to work here if I wasn’t. Every day, the same breeds of people.

The rain is still falling three hours later when a new breed appears in my shop.


	2. lister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what was going to be a quick in and out definitely does not go as planned

the bells above the door chime when i walk in. in and out. just here to buy smo- ABBA is playing over the speakers. i start drumming my thumb on the edge of my thigh, humming _take a chance on me._ looking over to the counter, i just point towards the ceiling. “fucking ABBA? _sick!_ ”

what was i here for? smokes. yes smok- _jimmy_ ? holy fuck i didn’t know he worked here. fuck okay... _cigarettes._ my thigh starts bruising but i can’t stop drumming now. maybe i should leave? i mean i’m already inside and _take a chance on me_ has stopped playing. now we’re just staring at each other. me drumming on my fucking leg and jimmy just looking at me in the empty shop waiting for me to say something. fuck I should probably say something. “er.. sm-smokes?”

jimmy just blinks back at me. ‘ _you got i.d mate?’_

i know he needs to see it but i falter and my face winces. “d’you really need to see it though?” my i.d picture’s a _bloody mess._ like completely horrid. i think i was drunk? or hungover? or both? _can you be both drunk and hungover?_ i probably have been. either way it’s awful.

jimmy sighs behind the counter. he looks tired. like _shit tired_ . how long has he been here? when was the last time he slept? _liss when was the last time you slept_ ? ‘ _mate.. no i.d. no cigarettes._ ’

sighing, i fish my wallet out of my pocket, the things i do…, and hand him my card.

jimmy just looks it over, flipping it a couple times before handing it back to me. ‘ _brand?’_

“camels. black crush?” my thigh starts actually hurting, so i move my tapping to the counter when jimmy turns his back. the ceiling speakers gone quiet but jimmy’s still humming. i think it’s still that ABBA song from earlier. “you like ABBA?”

jimmy’s turned around by now and he’s just looking at me, leaning over the counter looking at him. ‘ _who doesn’t?’_

i just nod back, because i mean i guess he’s right. “people without taste i guess.”

jimmy doesn’t say anything to that, so i just stand up clearing my throat. man i love being so fucking awkward lmao.

_‘it’ll be £8.50.’_

still nodding, i sift out the pound notes and change, sliding it across the counter. jimmy slides the pack across the counter in return.

“alright then.. thanks mate.” pack in hand, i just give him a quick scout salute before walking back out in the rain.

_*_

_smooth. real_ fucking _smooth lister._ i’m sitting on some bench i’ve found on the side of the road, orange street lamp lighting it and the rain up under it. `ve only had a crush on jimmy for about three years. no big. not a big deal at all really when i never had to talk to him. just watch from afar. yeah sure that sounds really fucking stalkerish but what else can i do? it’s not like i could walk up to him in the halls like ‘oh hey jimmy we don’t talk at all but i _really fancy_ you yea?’ fuck no! make a fucking mess of myself. no, instead i go out in the rain to get smokes and find the closest petrol station & it just so happens to be the one goddamn jimmy kaga-ricci has to work at. christ.

sitting on this bench my trousers have soaked through, not to mention my ratty trainers, and my third cigarette has gone out five times already. i can’t believe i just bought cigarettes from jimmy kaga-ricci. i can’t believe i tried to talk about ABBA to jimmy kaga-ricci. well okay maybe not so much, it was playing in his shop, but still. i can’t believe i just talked to _jimmy kaga-ricci._ and royally fucked myself over doing so. couldn’t stop drumming on the damn counter, couldn’t even speak for at least thirty seconds.

i light up for the sixth time and take a long pull. before i’m even done I can feel the smoke filling my throat. maybe it’ll choke me out and i’ll die before i even get to inhale. what a way to go. i drop my pull and actually start to breathe it in. well.. i didn’t die. i might as well have though after this run in tonight. maybe this was just one time. maybe i’ll just never go back to jet.. that’d be dumb though. it’s the closet shop to my home. hopefully next time he won’t be there… i want to see him, obviously, but like not in instances where i’m just going to make a complete arse of myself.

aces lister. fucking aces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first lister chapter! really excited to finally get these out, hope you enjoyed it. let me know what you think or just come talk me on tumblr at bonfireintrovert - see you on chapter 4 x


	3. jimmy

There was a guitar behind the counter on Tuesday. Of course there was, Rowan always brings our guitars on the slower days. When we don't have many customers, we tag team manning the counter and playing for the few who do come in. 

The speakers were off, so it was up to us to provide entertainment and background music for shoppers.

He grinned when I walked in. “Jimmy, finally! You get the counter first, I need to play this song.” He hopped onto our designated playing stool and pulled the guitar into his lap while I got situated behind the counter. 

“I'm impressed you lasted this long, Row. Two hours then switch?” 

He shrugged. “Sure, mate. You gonna sing for me?” He already knows the answer- of course I'm going to sing, I have been since we started this routine. He asks every time anyways, just in case my anxiety stops me. I appreciate that about him. Not everyone would think of that, honestly. 

He plucks chords out and I sing along, only pausing to greet customers or handle messes. The customers are different on slow days- sometimes there’s a group of uni kids, stopping in to grab study snacks or beers (on a Tuesday. Is uni even real?), but sometimes there’s a preppy real estate agent buying a bag of almonds and trying to talk up her company to a couple of seventeen-year-olds who work at a petrol station. Truly, this is the strangest job ever.

All the while, Rowan is strumming his guitar and I’m singing along. 

It’s an easy pattern to fall into, the kind of pattern that only exists when you’ve known someone for over ten years. We go through a large spectrum of songs in two hours; one of us yells out a song, be it an inside joke song or just something fun to play, and Rowan starts playing and it goes on and on.

We take a brief break around six and I notice that it’s raining again. It hadn’t been raining when I got here a while ago, but of course that wouldn’t last long. It’s always raining here, isn’t it?

After we finish eating a quick snack, he handed me the guitar. Now, he gets to relax and do nothing except counter work while I sing and play. Honestly, I get the better end of the deal. At first, I was just playing stupid songs from children’s shows to make Rowan laugh. Dora the Explorer, Steven Universe, and Wizards of Waverly Place were all present in the store that day.

He had me play a few songs by One Direction, not because we’re particularly big fans of them, but rather because he didn’t believe I could play any purely from memory. I could, obviously, and I wasn’t about to accept that affront on my skill.

I jokingly played an old country song that my Grandma used to listen to on an American CD by some old guy with a shitty name like George Strait. Rowan, predictably, hated it. Who wouldn’t?

My fingers were starting to ache a bit by 7:30, so I was thinking of putting the guitar down or letting Rowan have a turn. Then, right on time, a certain song got stuck in my head.

It was some song by Francis and the Lights. I don’t even know how it got stuck in my head. I think it was called Friends? I probably only know it because Rowan’s mum has a straight-crush on Bon Iver. I’ll never understand it. His music isn’t awful, I suppose, but his face?

I digress. 

I tried to recall the actual sound of the song. Lyrics are easy, I have no trouble remembering those, but the chords I have to play along to the lyrics are a lot more troublesome. 

I decided to ignore the actual beat of the song because frankly, it doesn’t really matter to me, and just played a simple chord progression that went along fine with the lyrics.

I was only a few lines in when the bell chimed, and in walked Lister Bird. Again. He just got cigarettes yesterday, why is he already back? 

I paid him very little mind and just continued strumming, serving customers is Rowan’s job right now.


	4. lister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rowan's a bit of a dick

lister -

there’s a guitar behind the counter when i walk in. it’s tuesday & i’m honestly not sure if this is a normal thing and i just don’t come into jet a lot or… granted, i didn’t even know jimmy worked at jet until yesterday so maybe i am missing out.

i don’t know why i came in here today. i don’t really need any more cigarettes. i bought a brand new pack yesterday. my run in with jimmy can confirm that. my sleepless night can confirm that. then again, i did smoke half of that pack. i was losing my mind! over running into jimmy in the shop, over making a complete arse of myself, over making a complete arse of myself in front of jimmy. christ he probably thinks i’m a fucking idiot. 

so, better safe than shit out of luck. either way, there’s a guitar behind the counter and shit. holy shit. fuck. i’m.. jimmy’s _also_ behind the counter… and he’s _playing the guitar_. 

my eyes immediately widen, darting to the floor. wow i like him so much lmao. i already liked him and then he has to go and sit behind this fucking counter, in his stupid  _ jet  _ t-shirt over his stupid hoodie, playing his guitar and make me like him even more. jesus christ i’m going to need to find new shop to buy smokes from. i can’t do this to myself everyday. i wouldn’t be doing this to myself everyday if i could stop running in to him. before yesterday, a pack of cigarettes could last me a week easy. now who knows? if i’m going to keep running into  _ jimmy kaga-ricci  _ then maybe the lung cancer’ll catch up to me before i have to worry about anything else.

i like that song though. maybe i’ll just stand here and listen to the song instead. then i get to see jimmy.. kind of,  _ see jimmy play guitar,  _ listen to this nice song, and not have to worry about any awkward human contact at all. sounds like a great plan. finally lister. i actually manage to just stand here for a moment. leaning against the window next to the door, just tapping my leg to the  _ actual  _ beat of the song. for a minute anyway.. until someone clears their throat at me and i’m forced to look up. why are they staring at me? well shit, i mean i am just kind of standing here… i should probably buy something. what was i here for? jimm- no cigs, yes cigarettes; smokes. okay _.  _ fuck, i hope they don’t need to see my id again. wait _ … they _ ?

so.. er.. jimmy is there behind the counter yes but someone else is too, standing slightly in front of him. is that… is that  _ rowan _ ? before i can stop myself, a disbelieving chuckle leaves my mouth.  _ fuck. me.  _ i’m ready to die. i’m actually ready to go. it’s raining outside (per usual), maybe i’ll walk down the road and get luckily struck by lightning. no, lister. you came here for a reason, and you’ve stood here for too long not doing  _ shit.  _ okay.. let’s do this. 

“er.. hey rowan…” he can tell i’m looking at jimmy. i can’t even meet his fucking eyes for christ’s sake. i don’t know what it is. this kid is younger than me but he can just get that look and it’ll make your damn bones shake man. 

_ ‘bird.’ _ i manage to actually look up and he’s just staring at me over his glasses.  _ fuck. _

alright lister, let’s lighten the mood yeah? jimmy’s unfazed. just sitting on the stool behind the counter playing his guitar. still on that song that i like, nearing the end. let’s lighten the mood. i can feel my fingers aching to  _ do something.  _

“think i can get a pack of cigarettes mate?” i put on a face. i’m chill. i’m relaxed. i’m lister  _ fucking  _ bird. i just want smokes.

_‘think i can get some id…._ mate _?’_

okay. he’s mocking me. i may not be that smart but i’m not an idiot. i can take a hint.  _ ‘get what you want and get out.’  _ okay. it’s nothing, i hand him my card, already fishing out the pound notes and change before he even asks what kind. i thought maybe with an empty store i’d get some time to hang around here, have a real conversation with jimmy, maybe talk about this guitar he’s got. another time… maybe.

_ ‘which pack?’ _ i meet rowan’s eyes. they’re stone, like he’s trying not to show anything. 

“camel crush. black.” i answer him with an equal lack of feeling. he turns around, skimming through the shelves. jimmy’s on the last few chords of that song. that’s when i remember it. 

_ friends  _ by francis and the lights with bon iver. 

it’s a really nice song.

i look over to jimmy just as he looks up, finishing the song, and catch his eyes. i can feel my own skin warming, but god forbid i think i see a little tint in his own cheeks. rowan’s turned back round by now and i haven’t time to say anything before he’s spitting the total and trying to hand me the pack. i shove over the notes and change, grabbing the pack from him. 

“thanks.” i mutter it under my breath, and he just raises his eyebrows in response. i think i see his mouth tighten, but i’m not going to kid myself.

i’m three steps from out in the rain when i can’t help it. “jimmy?”

his head snaps up, unexpectedly, and he raises his own eyebrows in question.

“was a nice song.” i’m turning around and out the door before he could even nod.

*

i’m losing it man. i can’t sleep. i’m spending another night on a random bench, under a random lamp, in the pouring rain. the pack from monday is gone. i finished it an hour and half after i left jet. i’ve got ¾ of the new one left but who honestly knows how long that’s going to last me. at this rate, maybe i’ll have spent enough time out in the rain to turn into a fish or something and just swim away with the rainwater… or just drown. can’t go home. don’t want to go home. definitely can’t go back to jet. but at the same time i can’t  _ not  _ go back to jet. i  _ know  _ jimmy works there now. it’s finally my chance to actually have a conversation with him. get to know him more. see if he even fancies guys. maybe he’d fancy… i can’t just give up on this now, whatever  _ this  _ even is, i can’t. 

i’m going to die. 

that’s a fact. it’s just a matter of what does me in first:

the cigarettes

or jimmy kaga-ricci.

**Author's Note:**

> follow us on tumblr ifitwasntforthenights.tumblr.com and bonfireintrovert.tumblr.com


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